


An introduction, though delayed

by intricate_glass_box



Series: Lex and the Actor [1]
Category: markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Crying, Developing Relationship, Drinking, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Netflix and Existential Crises, Nonbinary Character, Original Character(s), Other, POV Second Person, POV Third Person, Roommates, Sharing a Bed, Sleepovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25169803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intricate_glass_box/pseuds/intricate_glass_box
Summary: The Actor’s viewer stand-in character turned recurring costar turned roommate (a progression driven by more loneliness than he’d like to admit to) turns out to be a real person.
Relationships: Actor Mark/Lex (OC)
Series: Lex and the Actor [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1855654
Kudos: 9





	An introduction, though delayed

**Author's Note:**

> Hello I have a new character. 
> 
> This got pretty weird and a little fucked up. I started this a couple months ago with intent to solve and explore the fact that for my interpretation of canon, and further/more specifically the version that I use in a lot of my writing, “the viewer” (“Y/N” of AHWM and ADWM) is not the same person as the DA. I wanted to write stuff with the Actor anyway, so I needed a “viewersona,” and that meant I also needed to establish all that. Anyway, so I’m happy now, but especially in just this introduction-type fic it might come across as, well, weird and a little fucked up.

Your shoot had wrapped up early today. As you walked back to your apartment, you wondered if, because of that, you’d beat your roommate home. His name was Mark Iplier and he, like you, was also an actor — a rather… eccentric one. Not that you could judge him too harshly, being a bit out-there yourself. 

Even with his more abrasive qualities, the two of you got along fairly well most of the time, although you got the sense he didn’t consider you a close friend. You were glad to have him splitting the rent, in any case — a few months prior, after you’d worked with him on a couple of projects, you’d found out rather serendipitously that he was looking for a roommate. You’d taken him up on it, and moved with him into a loft apartment. 

As far as who got home first, you were only wondering because you’d been known to eat together, and you were hoping he’d be interested in splitting an order of something for dinner. And, you hoped he’d be home already so you didn’t have to wait any longer than necessary to eat. 

You did not at all expect to find him crying in his bed. 

(It was sort of a strange apartment. As stated, it was a loft, and there were kind of no walls. _Your_ bedroom was in the loft portion, so it felt fairly private despite being partially visible from the main room; his, however, was a section of the main room. He had privacy curtains, but they weren’t drawn. So, you’d come home, and as soon as you’d let yourself in the door, found him crying.)

“Mark— are you alright?” you asked. You’d never seen him upset like this. 

He immediately tried to stop, sitting up in bed and wiping at his eyes. “I’m fine,” he said stiffly. 

“…You don’t look alright.” 

“How are you home already?” he said, standing and turning away from you. His tone struck you as odd — irritated, but also incredulous. It didn’t seem like he intended you to answer the question at all, but you replied anyway, if a bit confusedly.

“I got out early. What’s wrong?” 

He stood frozen, and gave no response.

“…Mark. I know we’re not the closest, but you can talk to me… Y’know, I’m pretty good at giving unsolicited and unproven advice,” you tried. 

He remained facing away from you for long enough that you began to wonder if you’d been too nosy, and were about to just walk away to your room to give him some space when you heard him finally say, “Fine.” He still sounded angry, but when he turned around he just looked sad, with red eyes trained on the floor and not you. He’d stopped crying. 

You walked cautiously into his room. 

“I’m not going to tell you the details,” he warned. 

“You don’t have to, I was just offering. It helps to have someone to talk to.” You sat on his bed. 

“I just…” he started, sitting next to you then flopping backwards. “Everything _should be_ coming together. I’ve got the pieces in place, you know? I got what I wanted! I have _everything_ I wanted!” 

You laid back next to him and hummed thoughtfully. Yeah, it was kind of hard to parse that without the details he said he wouldn’t give you. 

In the lull, he added, “I shouldn’t feel like this. God. It feels pathetic to admit this, but fuck, I think I’m _lonely._ ”

“…If you want that unsolicited advice I mentioned, and maybe this is obvious, but you could reach out to people. Like, family, if you have them. Even if you haven’t talked to them in a while. Or old friends.” 

He bristled beside you. You suddenly got the feeling that was a touchy subject. “…Or try for new connections. Like interesting people from work, maybe.” 

He hummed in response, but it was listless and tense. 

You thought about what he’d started with, about things coming together. “Maybe it’s like learning a skill. You reach a point where your work seems so flawed, but that’s right before you advance the skill. Things might come together soon.” 

“…I’m not sure if that applies.” 

“Neither am I, but you didn’t wanna tell me the details and I didn’t wanna pry.” 

He didn’t answer, again. You glanced over to see him staring at the ceiling with his lips pressed into a tight line. He looked more likely to ask you to leave than to open up to you any more. 

To be honest, you liked Mark a lot, so the fact that you weren’t able to help was frustrating to you. But sometimes things just suck. Some things can’t be advised away. 

“Let’s have a sleepover,” you proposed. 

Mark gave a short, confused laugh. “What?” 

You sat up, turning to him. “A sleepover! We can make junk food and stay up late talking about random shit. I can paint your nails in exchange for you letting me drink some of your wine. We can watch weird shit on Netflix. C’mon, it’ll be fun. Get your mind off your broader complexities.” 

He looked up at you, seeming to consider it. “You know what? Fine.” 

“Wanna order pizza? I can do it if you get me that wine. Also, I was serious about painting your nails.” 

Mark didn’t look enthusiastic, but he agreed, and you ran up the loft stairs to dig up your nail polishes while plugging in your pizza order on your phone. 

When you got back, Mark had fulfilled his end of the deal, holding out a large glass of wine to you. He’d also pulled over the TV and went to work opening up Netflix now that he had a free hand. You took a sip. It was good stuff. (You weren’t very high-class so you couldn’t say more about it than that.) 

Mark chose something bad on purpose so that you could both tear it apart. The pizza arrived halfway through, and you polished off your oversized glasses of wine before it ended. He poured you both more. 

Then you made good on your offer/promise/threat to paint his nails, which he allowed you to do. You got to talking about shows he actually liked, work, pizza that was better than the mediocre chain pizza you’d just eaten, wines he liked, and more — Mark always talked a lot. 

You were having a lot of fun, actually. He put on one of the shows he’d mentioned after you finished up his nails. Being a little drunk, you hadn’t gone with a cohesive color scheme. Some were black, some were light green with dark green polka dots, then some were baby pink, and the last few were solid glitter. You thought they looked good. (Mark told you you were obligated to help him clean them off before he had to go back to work.)

You continued having a lot of fun, and Mark seemed to be as well, until he went quiet a few episodes into the show he’d been enthusiastically commentating for you. He was staring into his glass instead of at the TV.

You reached for the remote and paused it. “…Is something wrong?”

“This is… this is so _fake._ ” 

“…What?” 

He gestured to the surroundings angrily, nearly spilling his wine. “This! God, everything is.” 

You were trying not to be offended at his insults to your sleepover and had opened your mouth to ask what he meant when he added, “You’re not even fucking real.” 

All of a sudden you were seriously concerned. Did he seriously mean he didn’t think you were real? It was probably not a tactful way to say it, but the only way you thought to put it was: “… is there a chance you’re having, like, a psychotic break?” because what else do you say when someone tells you they don’t think you’re real?

He laughed harshly. “What’s your mother’s name?” 

You opened your mouth to reply to the question, because of course you should immediately have the answer, but… you… didn’t. You furrowed your brow. What the fuck? Well, maybe you didn’t grow up with a mother..? You were trying to think it through when Mark hit you with another question. 

“Where do you even work — what were you filming today?” 

“In the city,” you said, but you knew you should be able to be more specific than that. An uneasy dread filled your stomach as you tried to continue. “A… commercial, I think, something that wrapped early. Fuck, Mark—” 

“How long have we lived together?” 

The answer that came to your tongue was “a few months,” but how many? Which month did you move in? _What month was it now?_ You imagined this was the purest terror you’d ever felt but you weren’t so sure you’d ever felt terror before, anymore. “Am _I_ having a psychotic break?” you asked, a hysterical edge to your voice. 

“You’re not real!” Mark downright screamed, and you’d swear it sounded distorted. 

“How… how am I talking to you, then? I’m… I’m here. I painted your nails.” You were confused, desperate, but _not being real_ was unfathomable to you. “I might not have… a _backstory_ but I can’t be _not real,_ Mark, I ordered pizza with my credit card and we both ate it.” 

He was looking at you almost coldly. All you could do was keep stammering justifications. “I _am,_ I know I am, the question is, why…” You couldn’t finish your sentence. Why what? Real people had parents and daily commutes. 

God, did you know anyone other than Mark…?

“Mark,” you pleaded. He had to have answers. 

“I created you. I needed someone to play in my stories. I needed… someone,” he sounded sad again, at the last bit. But then it was back to the anger, the frustration. “So you’re _not real._ And none of _this_ is real.” 

That didn’t make any sense. Mark having _created you_ was a lot to swallow, but it’s not like you could get a second opinion. And what did he mean by his stories? The projects you’d done together?

You still felt like you were falling, but one thing stood out to you. “I got home early from work.” 

“…What?” 

“I got home early from work. The shoot wrapped early. I surprised you. I wasn’t supposed to be here. Wasn’t supposed to get back already.” If he created you, that would be one thing, but it didn’t make you _not real._

Mark was quiet, looking at you like you had a point. And you did, goddamnit. It’s not like he _controlled_ you, not if you could surprise him. 

“Everyone’s created by something. I… obviously, none of this makes sense. This is fucking crazy. But, Mark, I’m _real._ ” And you believed it even though you understood nothing about it. All you knew was that you existed, and that was going to have to be good enough for now. 

…But you needed to make Mark believe it, or you weren’t going to have any path forward. Which was terrifying. 

(On a different level, somewhere back in the back of your head, you were piecing together that you might be his only friend, and if he thought he’d created you — that you weren’t real — of course he was going to be lonely. You couldn’t tell him how much you cared about him without it sounding like an empty echo.)

But Mark _looked_ like he was taking you seriously. “…Maybe I should give you some of the details, then.” 

He sighed, very heavily. You fixed your gaze on his face — whatever he was about to tell you was important. You’d listen intently, because at this point, it was better to get all the information before you tried to understand. “I guess I’ll need to start from the beginning. I was born in 188X. My family was of money, which I eventually inherited along with the family estate. I was, as I am now, an actor. I had a number of close friends — the mayor of the city, Damien, and his twin sister Celine; a colonel named William, and the District Attorney, Y/N. Of course, I had plenty of friends in the industry, as well as family friends, but I… I considered _them_ my best friends,” he began to explain. You’d recovered from the initial shock that Mark was a century older than you thought he was in time to note the bitterness in varying colors with which he said the names of his former friends. 

But you didn’t have time to ponder, because he continued. “But it wasn’t to last. I married Celine — I _loved_ her. Adored her. Gave her everything she could want. We were _happy._ Until _William_ destroyed it all. He fell on _hard times._ I helped him out! As one of my best friends, of course I would, right? I lent him money; I let him _live with us…_ ” He was mounting to outright ranting, and it was scaring you a bit. You hadn’t thought it through when you reached out a hand, resting it gently on his arm. He breathed in sharply, nearly pulling away, but then he looked at you and seemed to calm down, just enough to continue, though no less venom in his voice.

“…but, that was my mistake. He _seduced_ Celine, right under my nose. They stole the money and ran away, leaving me completely alone.” The emotion in his voice was resentment, but you were struck by the pain that must’ve caused him. 

He looked at you, probably to make sure you were listening as intently as the story deserved, but he couldn’t hold the searching look in your gaze, and dropped it. 

“This is, of course, the short version of the story… but it ruined my life, my career, everything. I had… nothing,” he admitted, and now there was pain in his voice. “I killed myself.”

He paused for just a second. “In the manor, death doesn’t work the same way. As it turned out… there was an _entity,_ one of great power, living within. So if you die there, you can come back. You’ll heal from whatever kills you… though not perfectly.”

…You really resisted the urge to stop him; the darker the story got, the more he seemed to gloss over. 

“I learned about the entity. It wanted out, and I wanted revenge. And after… certain damages, I needed a new body. I made a deal with it, and we came up with a plan. I invited everyone back, for a party. A _reunion._ ”

“I will spare you the details. William was supposed to be framed for my murder… but it didn’t quite go as planned. Buuuut it all worked out in the end… obviously.” His voice went from nothing but cold contempt to relatively cheery within a second. “The people who hurt me will never hurt me again. I still can’t die, not after all my time in the manor. That’s not all I got out of the deal — most importantly, I have the power to control my own stories. That’s how I created you, and this place, and the adventures you co-starred in.” He looked at you and smiled then, as if he’d already put the earlier half of his tale out of his mind. 

…There were so many questions you could ask. What did he do to William? An _entity?!_ What did that even mean — what entity, and where did it go? How could any of that be possible? Whose body did he have? And, god, you didn’t know him at all, did you?

You stared back, shaking your head in shock. 

Mark’s expression grew concerned. You must look pretty shaken. “I understand, it’s a lot to take in,” he tried to soothe, but it only put you more on edge. 

“Mark, did you kill him?” 

“No! God, no,” he exclaimed. “William is still alive, actually,” he said, trying but failing for a neutral tone, no doubt for your sake. 

“Then whose _body_ do you have?” 

“…I’d wanted to leave this part out,” Mark said, his tone warning. 

“I need to know.” You were shaking. 

“Like I said… things didn’t go to plan. William killed the detective and then the District Attorney when they confronted him for killing _me._ The entity knew things had gone off script, but saw an opportunity to get the freedom it had wanted out of our deal, and killed Celine and Damien. It stole Celine’s body. I have no idea where it went after that, honestly.” Mark was silent for a second, a grim look on his face as he took in yours. You said nothing, so he continued. “…Of course, as with mine, their souls persisted after death. Celine blamed _me_ for everything that had happened that night. She was determined to kill me… again. And permanently. She _used_ Damien, and they stole the District Attorney’s body together. I don’t know what happened in the process — some kind of corruption, but it’s no wonder when they tried to cram two souls fueled by hatred into one body that wasn’t even theirs to begin with. That’s _Darkiplier,_ and he’s still hell-bent on ending me even all these years later. Or, she, or they; I don’t really know, given that it’s the two of them in there. It’s not like Dark would be down for a nice chat. I’ve been on the run from him, to be honest. I hope you never meet him… he might kill you just for associating with me.”

“Mark,” you cried, stopping him from continuing. It was too much to take in all at once.

“I’m sorry,” Mark said. “I told you I didn’t want to tell you all of that.” 

And maybe you should’ve listened. But you’d needed to know — needed to know that Mark wasn’t a murderer. But he’d tried to frame someone for a murder. He’d ended up getting people killed, even if he hadn’t done it himself… It was enough to very nearly make you forget that all of this was meant to explain the fact that you were apparently not a real person — which it hadn’t, not by any means; you still had no idea why you couldn’t picture the faces of the family you’d thought you had or name the place you got your coffee in the mornings. You still didn’t understand how Mark could have _created_ you. 

And everything _he’d_ been through. And even now, someone fucking hunting him down?! God, fuck it all, you cared about him; it upset you. 

You only realized you were crying when Mark touched your shoulder gently. “Hey, you’re okay,” he murmured. “Take your time.” 

Every part of it felt like something you should talk about more, most of it felt like something you needed to do something about, but you were just about at your breaking point for understanding any of it. You wiped away the tears. “Mark, I…” 

But he cut you off. “I know. That was a lot. Why don’t we… just get some sleep?” he suggested. 

Terror seized you again. Everything about your reality had been pulled out from under you tonight. If you went to sleep, would you wake up? Could Mark get rid of you like he’d created you — and as absurd as that still was, you had no alternative but to believe it, at this point. You couldn’t voice your fears — you were scared _of Mark._

He was looking at you intently. There was no way he couldn’t tell how distressed you’d become. “…You don’t have a name,” he said softly. 

“What?” you gasped, because _that was fucking absurd._ You reached for it, tried to ready a sentence like “My name is…” but sure enough, nothing came. Through the maelstrom of emotions you’d been feeling, a surprisingly mundane annoyance came through, and you gave a short laugh. “You didn’t even give me a name?”

Mark gave you a slightly apologetic smile as if unsure what else to do, but his eyes still looked concerned. You were on new, confusing ground for him as well, you realized. While you were coming to terms with not being as much of a real person as you’d thought you were, he was coming to terms with you being more of a real person than he’d thought you were. 

“No. You should name yourself,” he suggested, still watching you. Waiting. 

You let that wash over you. Somehow, it made you feel so much better. Even if he _could,_ of course he wouldn’t just… end you. He wanted you around — he wanted someone, obviously, or you wouldn’t exist at all. 

…Eventually, you’d have to talk about that, and figure out what it meant to you that you wanted to be close to him given that was very possibly by design. And you’d have to talk more about all the other things unrelated to you that had come out tonight. 

But, the question was grounding. Of course there’d be a tomorrow. Of course you’d talk more. And of course you needed some fucking sleep first after like twelve consecutive bombshells. 

You were a real person. It was good that Mark hadn’t named you. You were your own person. It was only fitting to pick your own name. 

You brainstormed, quickly. Nothing too close to Mark’s name, of course. You thought on the things you knew about yourself. You’d rather go by a nickname, you figured, and it would be nice if the long form of your name was traditionally masculine for Complex Gender Reasons™. Something classic, maybe, with a punchy short form, would suit you quite well. 

…Yeah, okay, you’d thought of one. 

You put your hand out as if for a handshake, smiling unsteadily. “I’m Alexander. Call me Lex.” 

Mark gave Lex a quite-genuine smile, taking their handshake. “…Lex. I like it.” 

They dropped the handshake and the emotional exhaustion settled around Lex again. They weren’t scared anymore, but it was still overwhelming. 

Mark seemed to notice. “Well then. Lex. I’ll put on… something” — he picked up the remote and began flipping through the offerings — “and if you’re comfortable sleeping here, you’re welcome to.”

Lex nodded. “A distraction to fall asleep to would be nice,” they murmured by way of acceptance. Mark ended up picking a cartoon, and turned the volume down to negligible levels before maneuvering the bedsheets out of the way. He gestured for Lex to lay down on one side, which they did before Mark pulled the covers over both of them. 

They were both quiet. Everything needed to wait until morning, and Lex at least needed sleep, so any comments that came to mind about the situation they found themselves in, or the show, or the random thoughts that may have otherwise been shared all went unvoiced. And Lex was asleep within minutes.


End file.
